


Operation Thorndike

by lady_needless_litany



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Sexism, Poison, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 20:25:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12967728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany
Summary: Graves, Picquery, and the MACUSA team join forces with Theseus Scamander to solve a case in New York.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TycoonTwister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TycoonTwister/gifts).



> This was written for the Fantastic Gifts (and Where to Find Them) fic exchange for TycoonTwister, who requested some Percival Graves hurt/comfort and MACUSA family feels.
> 
> This is the longest fic I've written to date, so there are some slight issues with pacing. Also, I apologise for the truly terrible (and stereotypical) American accent - I’ve absolutely no experience in that area.

Percival Graves had gotten his job (first as an Auror, then as the Director of Magical Security) for two reasons. 

The first was that he was a damn good wizard, in multiple ways. He had an air of power about him, one that could only come from absolute confidence in his abilities. And his abilities were nothing if not impressive. The only transgression in his Ilvermorny career had been when he and three other students had been caught duelling in the courtyard, under the snakewood tree. He’d escaped anything more than cursory punishment because it had been three against one and because he’d been winning — the teachers had respected that. Seraphina, on the other hand, had found the whole debacle incredibly funny. He was an Occlumens, too, and magic came to him as easily as breathing, with a flick of his hand. 

The second was that he worked hard. Incessantly. The _New York Ghost_ had once likened him to an ox. A sycophant might have risen faster through MACUSA’s ranks, but no one could doubt that Graves had earnt the mantle he bore with such style.

He lived and breathed his job. In the years since he’d left Ilvermorny, he’d never stopped to set down roots, had never married or found something else to live for. MACUSA was a stern mistress, but his devotion to her was absolute. It wasn’t healthy, he knew. But ambition and diligence were his two oldest companions and they had taken him far. Then that had all come screeching to a halt.

It had been just over a year since Grindelwald. 

He was still afraid, though he’d never admit it. Afraid that one day Grindelwald would materialise and decide to kill him, slowly, just because he could. That hadn't happened, so far. Graves sometimes wondered whether Grindelwald preferred the knowledge that Graves lived in fear to actually enacting any twisted plot of vengeance. Or perhaps Graves simply didn't matter.

He was relieved that he had no memory of the man or of his captivity or of Tina Goldstein’s dashing rescue. He only remembers waking up in hospital a few days later to a stream of apologies, Goldstein at the forefront and Picquery conspicuously absent. No, the President’s apology had taken a much more tangible form — his job back, no questions asked. He wasn't sure what he would have done otherwise. Gone mad, he supposed.

Picquery and Graves had been friends since their Ilvermorny days. He had watched her fight opposition — because she was a woman, because of the colour of her skin — for years. She was a formidable witch and an even better leader. In fact, he thought that if it hadn't been so scandalously inappropriate, he might have like to ask Seraphina Picquery to dinner. But he was nothing if not practical, so he did not allow that thought to linger.

A memo, sent from one of his junior Aurors, arrived on his desk on Friday evening.

_Director,_

_New information suggests that Lobalug smuggling related to sale of Amortentia to No-Majs. Possible links to recent power spikes and illegal Giggle Water imports. Could suggest larger issue, i.e. large-scale black market operation. Unsure how to proceed. Please advise._

_Blakely_

Marcus Blakeley, Graves thought, was a talent that should be nurtured. He was likeable, committed, smart. At the moment, however, he would gladly have thrown the man out of a window. His plate was full enough already. Still, he duly summoned him and heard him out. And then cursed the man even more, because he was unequivocally right.

***

Halfway around the world, a man sighed, placed the letter he’d been reading onto a pile of other correspondence, and put his face in his hands. Raising his head, he called through the door: “Davies! Get me Scamander. Now!”

“Yes, sir.” The reply was muffled.

***

Theseus was working systematically through his inbox, as was his custom on Friday afternoons when he was unceremoniously interrupted. Davies, Hector Fawley’s personal secretary, personally escorted the man to the Minister’s office, sans explanation. Theseus wasn’t surprised — the man had always been brusque, a stark contrast to his flamboyant employer, and seemed to harbour an inexplicable dislike of him.

A curt announcement: “Theseus Scamander, sir.”

“Yes, thank you, Davies.” Fawley hurriedly shuffled a stack of papers into order on his desk. The secretary bowed out of the room, shutting the door with a click.

Fawley gestured for Theseus to sit opposite him. “Thank you for taking time away from your work. I know you're busy.” He paused for a moment, steepling his fingers. “Mr. Scamander — what I'm about to tell you is extremely sensitive.”

Theseus leaned forward slightly. There was something discomforting about the gravity in the usually ebullient Minister’s tone. 

“I selected you because of your ongoing experience with the Grindelwald case. You're a good wizard and I know that you can be discrete.”

The due praise was accepted with the slightest nod.

“There's a situation in America. I've just received word of it. It would reflect badly on both of our nations if the press got wind of it at this point or if we didn't immediately contribute to the response.”

_Ah. Thus the concern. His image is paramount, after all. Well, I suppose he wasn’t elected for his strong policy._

“I see. But what about the Grindelwald situation?”

“I'm sure that the team can spare you temporarily.” 

_You would think that._ Theseus thought scathingly. _You’ve never taken Grindelwald as seriously as you need to._

Outwardly, he schooled his voice into a more amiable tone. “Yes, sir. What do you need me to do?”


	2. Chapter 2

It was Monday, disastrously early in the morning. Graves thanked the powers that be for the blessing of coffee, without which he doubted he’d be able to function at seven o’clock. He had to be in especially early today, to meet the British Minister’s envoy.

He proceeded, as per Picquery’s instructions, directly to the Presidential office, his footsteps echoing through the empty building.

He walked past her secretary’s desk, letting himself into the spacious room. Picquery was already there, seated behind an enormous wooden desk, engrossed in a file. She looked up as he entered.

“Good morning, Director.” her voice was carefully modulated, but not without warmth.

“Good morning, Madam President.”

“I apologise for the early start, but it was unavoidable. Fawley’s representative will be here in a few minutes.”

Graves assumed his usual position — standing at the corner of Picquery’s desk, eyes towards the door — as the secretary knocked, sticking his head around the door. “Excuse me, President Picquery? Mr. Scamander has arrived.”

Graves turned to Picquery, raising an eyebrow. “Scamander?”

“Don’t worry, Graves.” she said, amused. “Not _that_ Scamander.”

A figure strode in and executed a short bow to the President. Behind him, a young man slipped through the door, diverting Graves’ attention; a simple dark suit, a pair of glasses, neat hair, an air of nervousness. A recent graduate of Ilvermorny, Graves surmised, trying to make his way into MACUSA’s ranks. He wished him luck, then redirected his attention to the person in front of him.

Picquery didn't rise.

“Mr. Scamander.”

Cool, neutral.

Theseus Scamander stood tall. He was fair-skinned and dark-haired, with eyes that could be either green or blue depending on how the light fell. His forehead seemed like one used to being creased in concentration or concern. His cheekbones were high and liberally dusted with freckles. The family resemblance was clear.

“President Picquery. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise. And allow me to introduce Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Director of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Yes, we’ve...corresponded before.” he and Graves shook hands, amicably. “It’s good to finally meet you in person, Director.”

“Yes, although the circumstances-” Graves replied, making a sort of circle gesture. “-are not ideal.”

“No. Unfortunately not.”

President Picquery interjected here. “Before we begin, I feel obligated to say...I hope, Mr. Scamander, that you do not plan on being as troublesome as your brother was when he last visited us?"

Theseus (Graves couldn’t think of him as _Scamander_ , that epithet was reserved for one Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, who had gained a fair degree of notoriety in New York since the debacle of 1926) laughed. "No, I was always the more sensible one. Do not worry, Madam Picquery — I will endeavour to be on my best behaviour.”

“Good. We can rest assured, then.” she looked again at the file in her hands. “Graves, update everyone on the situation, please.”

“A few days ago, I was notified by one of my Aurors that they had linked two of the cases that we've dealt with over the last month. One was a wizard selling Amortentia to No-Majs, pretending to be some kind of carnival conjuror with a magical love potion. Fortunately, no one seems to have been hurt, but it clearly went against the Statute and we've yet to apprehend the responsible party.” He paused, gathering his breath. “The second was a long-term case involving the smuggling and black-market sale of Lobalugs. We suspect it links to other issues, mostly black-market dealings.”

This wasn't anything that the other two hadn't already heard.

“This is a serious problem for multiple reasons. Firstly, some of the things they’re dealing with — especially Lobalug poison — are a danger to wizards and No-Majs alike. They're also not discrete. It would be far too easy for the No-Majs to work this out, and who knows what would happen then?”

“If you don't mind my asking, Director, why is the Ministry involved in this? Mr. Fawley wasn't exactly clear.” A lie, but Theseus wanted to hear it confirmed.

“We have reason to believe that their sources are British. They must have some direct link — Portkeys, Floo Network — setup between the two countries. If this isn't contained...we’re looking at a massive breach of the Statute of Secrecy, both here and in the UK.” He shook his head slowly. “We have access to all the resources of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but we’re limited in people. The Grindelwald case must take priority, you understand.”

“Of course. If it were in my power, the Ministry would prioritise similarly.”

Graves nodded, then looked to President Picquery. “I’d like to bring Goldstein onto this case. She’s one of my best Aurors.”

Theseus spoke before Picquery had a chance to respond. “Goldstein? Porpentina Goldstein?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. My brother has mentioned her. After the–” he alluded to what the DMLE referred to as ‘The Case Incident’ with a waft of his hand, his professional façade cracking slightly. “Said she was very talented.”

“Yes, well, she’s an excellent witch. A little reckless. Headstrong. Has the makings of a good leader, I think–”

“I hate to interrupt, gentlemen, but we really must press on. Graves, if you think her contribution would be valuable, pull her in as soon as you can.” 

Picquery gestured at the bespectacled youngster sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, who looked like he was doing his utmost to assimilate into the wall behind him. “Mr. Blackwell will be present throughout for the sake of official records. I’ll have a copy of his notes sent to the Ministry after this meeting — and regularly for the duration of the case — so that they can stay up-to-date.”

“I’m sure that the Minister will appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Theseus had reassumed his mask of diplomacy.

Picquery nodded once. “Let’s dispense with the formalities here, gentleman. We have work to do, and we can’t afford to be distracted by etiquette.”

“I quite agree.” Theseus responded. Graves nodded his assent.

“Good.” Picquery picked up her quill. “Then we’d better get started.”

***

Now, three days into the investigation, they had relocated to one of the conference rooms in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Graves’ home territory. They’d settled into something of a routine: Goldstein and Blakely chased every lead they had across the city, Graves and Theseus spent their time analysing evidence, interviewing people, and coordinating everything; Picquery provided her insight for a few hours a day, whenever she wasn't busy with the thousands of other things that demanded her attention. Blackwell filled in various documents and occasionally provided the rest of them with a strong cup of coffee. At any other time, Graves would have thrown the whole department into upheaval, had fifty different Aurors in a hundred different places, channelled every available resource into the case; as it stood, there was only the six of them. It was slow going — they’d yet to find anything truly substantial. Every detail proved elusive, even with Graves working from dawn until midnight and the others not much less. In a way, he was glad. For the first time since his return, he felt truly immersed in something, and the ever-present fear was beginning to thaw.

The late afternoon light fell through the window, gilding the table in the centre of the room. It was laden with newspapers and pages of handwritten notes, Graves and Theseus sitting on opposite side of it. A map was tacked to the wall, riddled with pins. The air itself was weary and stale. No word had disturbed the atmosphere for hours, aside from the paper’s dry rustling of and the scratch of quill on parchment.

Graves’ attention began to wander.

Though they’d exchanged countless letters, though there was a sense of respect and admiration between the two men, they didn’t really know one another. Graves knew that Theseus’ handwriting was elegant, with the most delicate of curlicues, that he wrote with a succinct poetry and a surety that came only with an unshakeable confidence in oneself. But nothing...concrete.

Theseus interrupted his train of thought without taking his eyes off the page in front of him. “I’ve not asked before, but I’m curious: are you related to Gondulphus Graves?”

“The Auror? Yes. He’s an ancestor.”

“Fascinating.” He finally looked up, resting his chin on his hand. “I find all of America’s history most intriguing. It's so different to ours, you know.”

Graves couldn't tell whether he's sincere or whether there was a slight mocking edge to the words, so he ignored them, sharply deflecting back onto his interlocutor.

“What about your family?” he made a vague circular gesture. “I’ve met your brother. Not during the...incident, of course, but I did manage to speak to him when he visited after the publication of his book. He seems to be a unique character.”

“Hmm. Well, apart from Newt, the Scamander family is highly uninteresting, if you can believe it. My mother breeds Hippogriffs, but that’s as exciting as it gets.”

“I...find that I’m relieved that I don’t have to worry about the rest of you.”

“You can rest easy, Graves,” Theseus sighed, but seemed to relax. “My brother and I...we haven’t a lot in common.”

“No, that’s not hard to see.”

Theseus laughed quietly. “No. We’re very different. And I’m not sure we’ve really ever understood each other. But we’ve always had a strong relationship. Even when we were children and couldn’t bear each other, we loved each other.”

Graves realised, abruptly, that he must have gained the other man’s trust, passed some kind of test, for him to be so open. He considered, for a moment, the fact that they had written to one another for years, their letters an odd mix of official enquiries and personal notes. It was strange. They felt like they knew each other, but they did not. But perhaps they understood each other.

***

Blakely came to them later that evening, nearly bouncing in excitement, dragging a more subdued Goldstein in his wake. Graves and Theseus listened as the two explained, then looked at each other, sceptical.

“Your source — do you know him? Can he be trusted?” Theseus questioned, doubtful.

“I'm not sure.” Blakely chewed his lip. “We’ve never met him before, but we’ve got no reason to doubt his information.”

“Are you sure about this?” Graves didn’t want to doubt his team, but they couldn’t afford to get this case wrong.

Goldstein and Blakely exchanged a glance. “Well, sir…”

The man trailed off; Goldstein stepped forward to finish his thought. “Mr. Graves, it's the best lead we've got. It's the only thing in the last few days that's been anywhere near certain. Everything else has evaporated.”

“It's got potential, sir, real potential.” Blakely chipped in.

“That's all well and good, but _are you sure_?”

Her gaze flicked downwards, to the floor. She did that whenever she was unsure if herself, which was far too often, in Graves’ opinion. “No, sir.”

He nodded. The truth, cold as it was, was better than a delusion that could wind up killing someone.

“But you think it's the best chance we've had so far.”

“Sir...it's the only real chance we've had.”

He couldn't quibble with that, so he took it straight to Picquery, still in her office, despite the late hour. He explained, she listened. They ended up with twin expressions of ambivalence — tentative hope and concern and determination and calculation all at once.

“We can commandeer a small force — three or four Aurors, plus ourselves — just for the bust.” Graves finished.

She deliberated, quickly and effectively, then replies in a decisive tone. “Okay. Then we’ll proceed as soon as possible.”

***

They threw a plan together quickly, using Graves’ expertise and Goldstein’s intuition and Theseus’ mind for strategy. They were calm and levelheaded, careful not to let urgency cloud their judgement.

It was ten o’clock at night when they ran their final checks and confirmed their latest intel. The four of them — Graves, Theseus, Goldstein, Blakely — and the three Aurors that they’d borrowed sat in their little conference room.

Blakely, being the least experienced of them, looked a little shaky — this wasn't his first outing, but he was a natural worrier. It was normal, though, and Graves didn’t think any less of him for it.

“Let’s run through everything one more time.” Graves suggested, in an attempt to reassure the man.

Theseus, perhaps sensing Graves’ motives, started. “Goldstein and Blakely will enter first. The rest of us will wait.”

“Once we’re inside, we’ll find a table and order drinks.” Goldstein added.

“That's important,” Graves said. “You have to blend in.”

One of the others, a balding man in his late forties, took over. “The three of us–” he gestures at his compatriots. “–will go next. We’ll do the same thing.”

Theseus resumed, “After about fifteen minutes, Graves and I will enter. We’ll wait a few minutes, then ask to meet with the manager. If he’s cooperative, we’ll get him to clear the customers out of the bar and then arrest him and the staff. If not…a show of force may be our only option.”

“Our last option.” Graves reiterated. “The clientele will primarily be civilians. They must not come to any harm.”

There were nods around the table. There was a pregnant pause, then Graves shook himself and sent them their separate ways for a few minutes, to change into more appropriate clothing.

Graves decided that tonight was a midnight blue night. He liked to dress well and tonight was no exception. A tailored waistcoat layered over a crisp white shirt and trousers. His overcoat was of a similar cut to his usual one, though matched his waistcoat in colour and had a cream satin lining, complemented by a golden pocket watch. His outfit, though not precisely à la mode, was undeniably stylish. It had a sense of elegance, of distinction, of sophistication. Of power. Not ideal for fighting or true mobility of any kind, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

He returned to the conference room. He found that Goldstein had also opted for blue, albeit a lighter shade — it was something of a signature colour for her. She looked slightly uncomfortable, though Graves thought that he would feel the same if surrounded entirely by men, especially with the way that one of the other Aurors was eyeing her up. The thought provoked something protective in him — he glared at the man — and generated a newfound respect for her.

Theseus had selected a dark suit. Subtle patterns traced his waistcoat. It flattered him, Graves noted.

He glanced around the room again; his team was assembled. Picquery had wanted to be there, but a meeting with the French ambassador had detained her. He acknowledged them all with a sharp jerk of his chin, then they went to work.

***

  
Their target was a speakeasy, a dodgy establishment called The Poltergeist. Standing in their cobbled alley across the road, they had a clear view of the entrance, which was concealed within a dilapidated public toilet.

As agreed, Goldstein and Blakely went first. The pair crossed the street and disappeared into the building. Graves was an old hand at this, but found himself tapping his fingers anxiously. He hated the sense of helplessness that accompanied the waiting. 

It was painfully slow, but the agreed window elapsed and the next trio set off.

The minutes stretched unbearably, like toffee. He leant against the alley’s wall, his eyes never leaving the building opposite. Theseus shifted, making him look up, and he was thankful for the distraction.

“I've done a lot,” the man confided quietly. “One way or the other. But I've never done anything quite like this.”

Somehow, a hint of a grin found its way onto Graves’ face. “First time for everything.”

“So it would appear.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “We should go.”

They had to dodge two cars. Then they were across the road.

Graves lead, Theseus hot on his heels. He pushed the door open cautiously. The interior was poorly lit, the street throwing just enough light through the door for them to make out a line of toilet cubicles, the paint on their doors peeling. The sinks at the end of the room dripped intermittently. The smell was a repulsive combination of damp, mould, and urine. They both made an effort not to come into contact with anything. Safe in the knowledge that there were no No-Majs to see them, they drew their wands.

They proceeded as their informant had instructed them, gingerly opening a supply closet. They entered, securing the door behind them. Instantly, they were plunged into darkness. 

A light bloomed — the tip of Theseus’ wand, ignited by an unspoken incantation.

The back of the closet was false. Graves knocked twice, firmly. A moment of hesitation and it swung inwards.

They blinked heavily as they were flooded with light. A greasy-looking man, presumably the same one that had admitted them, escorted them down a short corridor and down a set of carpeted stairs. He did not speak. Graves gave him a curt nod as they emerged into the bar.

The sound, courtesy of a mediocre jazz band, hit them first. It was a near overwhelming din of music and chatter, topped off with a haze of cigarette smoke. They glanced at one another. There was no other way to communicate. 

The crowd — because the place was packed — was a mixture of humans and goblins, for the most part. House elves serving drinks. There was a table of people with a feral look that suggested lycanthropy. Several girls were plying their wares indiscreetly. Graves had to question the character of anyone who chose to frequent a dive like this, but there had to be a dozen of the places in New York alone. He had to remind himself that not all of the customers were criminals.

Somehow, through a combination of large gestures and shouting, they conveyed their order to an unimpressed bartender. To his credit, he whipped up their drinks almost instantly. They were more for show than anything else, because they couldn't afford to be drunk at a time like this. 

The two men took seats at the bar. Graves made a show of surveying the room, spying the others quickly. They were ready to go, by the look of things. Beside him, Theseus took a fortifying sip of his Firewhiskey (the British — they just couldn't appreciate good American alcohol).

From behind, the bartender poked Graves in the arm, causing him to half turn around.

“You look familiar.” he drawled.

Graves just shrugged arrogantly.

“You been here before?”

He replied flatly: “No.”

“Who’s this?”

“A friend. From work.”

“Yeah? Where d’you work?” His voice had turned suspicious.

Theseus froze at that. What could Graves possibly say that wasn't incriminating?

“That’s none of your business.” He punctuated the sentence with a deep draught of his drink.

“No need to get aggressive, mister, just making conversation.”

“Don't.”

The bartender, sulking, skulked away to the other end of the bar.

“Are we ready?” asked Theseus.

“Let's give it a minute.” Graves replied. “I need to get my bearings.”

With that, the two men focused their attention outwards again. Their compatriots were playing their parts well. There was no anomaly, no aberration, in the throng of bodies. Still, they couldn't afford to relax — this was, supposedly, a major point for a large scale crime ring.

The bartender, now on the wrong side of his bar, had returned. Another man, presumably a waiter of some kind, stood at his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

“Having a drink.”

“Really.” It was a statement, not a question. “See, I think you might be with MACUSA.”

Theseus could see why: their clothes were a little too well made, their posture a bit too self-assured, their voices slightly too authoritative to properly blend with the bar’s usual customers.

“So what if I was?”

“Your kind ain’t wanted here. Get out.” The statement was laced with aggression.

When they didn't move, the man pulled out his wand. Graves looked to Theseus. They both knew that there was only one way this was going to go.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“What you gonna do about it, huh?”

“No, really,” Theseus’ cut glass accent was completely out of place. “That's a terrible idea. You see, you just threatened MACUSA’s Director of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Theseus Scamander, at your service.” He gave one final stab at diplomacy. “We’re not trying to cause trouble. We just want to talk to your manager.”

“Go to hell.”

Half a dozen others, staff and customer alike, drew their wands at his words. Chairs screeched against the floor as the Aurors, immobile until then, stood ready for a fight.

“Oh, I see how it is.”

“I'm glad we’re on the same page–”

The first spell flew before Graves could finish speaking. It narrowly missed him, instead shattering the glass bottles on the bar behind him.

As the fight erupted, screams and shouts peppered the air. Graves was relieved to see that most of the customers had Apparated almost immediately — one less thing to worry about. The others were embroiled in the duelling and, well, he could arrest them later if he had to.

The information had been false, that much was obvious. These people weren't nearly dangerous or coordinated enough; this was a bar brawl, not a tactical defence. No, the bar was a shady outfit, dealing in prostitutes and probably No-Maj drugs, but definitely not what they were looking for.

The logical move would have been to get out of their as soon as possible, but that proved difficult with hexes flying at them from all angles. There was also the matter of reputation. MACUSA couldn't afford to back down in the face of a few ragtag criminals.

Standing almost back-to-back with Theseus, there were several minutes of chaos, a rapid exchange of strikes, until Graves heard one word that chilled him:

“Crucio!”

An Unforgivable Curse. He doubted the skill of their opponents, but if they were willing to use Unforgivable Curses...Graves refused to lose a single person in a situation where they could gain nothing.

“Disapparate!” he shouted at the Auror nearest to him.

The man, fending off two opponents at once, didn't seem to hear him.

Graves cursed under his breath and bolted from his position, away from Theseus’ protection. He hit one of them with simple Stunning spell — he didn't even see Graves coming. Taking advantage of the spare split-second that gave him, the man hit his other opponent with a well-aimed Body-Bind Curse.

_Petrificus totalus_ was a favourite of the Aurors, incapacitating your opponent without doing them any harm.

“Back to MACUSA.” he tells the Auror. “Now.”

“But, sir–”

“Now.” No one argued with Percival Graves when he spoke in that tone of voice. The man Disapparated.

The other two were nearby. He shouted and they caught on quickly. He didn't see them go, but he trusted that they had.

That left four of them. Of all of them, he had most faith in Theseus’ abilities — a quick glance informed him that the man had ended up standing on top of the bar, keeping at least four wizards at bay. His wand was practically a blur.

Blakely first, then. 

Blakey wasn't coping well. He was only battling one man — a portly customer whose face was contorted into an expression of hateful anger — but was weakening under an aggressive onslaught of magic. He slashed his wand through the air wildly. Perhaps one in every three spells went anywhere near his target, only to bounce ineffectually off the man's Shield Charm.

He couldn’t afford to distract Blakely, not when he was already struggling. Instead, he diverted his antagonist with a stream of hexes, advancing on the pair all the while. It was enough to cause the man’s defences to falter. He paused for a moment, seemingly out of shock.

Blakely took the opportunity and vanished.

The man, now without adversary, attacked Graves instead. He stormed forward, his face like thunder. Graves could see why Blakely had been intimidated.

“Impedimenta!” Graves hadn’t meant to say it out loud, it was bad practice, but the strain of the situation was catching up to him. He was out of breath, his heart rate elevated.

It didn’t matter, verbal or nonverbal. The man stopped, the air knocked out of him, the air knocked out of him,

Goldstein, thankfully, appeared to be more competent than Blakely had been. She Stunned the man from behind and he crumpled to the floor.

She seemed to have dispatched all of her attackers already.

At that point, Graves noticed that it had become somewhat quieter. There were still bangs and crashes from the bar, where Theseus was still fighting, but the screams and shouts had ceased.

The brawl was no longer fractured, but divided in two — Theseus’ engagement, and Graves and Goldstein, who were now surrounded by a semicircle of men that was slowly inching forward. The pair reversed, step by step, until they felt the wall behind them.

Some of the men were smirking now, knowing that the two had no escape, though they hadn’t yet dared to release a spell upon them. A mild smugness came with the knowledge that they were scared of them.

“Goldstein...” Graves said. “Go.”

“Go?”

“MACUSA. Go.”

He was inordinately grateful that, for once, she didn't stop to question his order. She turned on the spot, dematerialising at once. There were a few cackles as she did so, the men growing cockier.

Graves felt a momentary calm sweep over him, his brain turning analytical. He was pinned down. He was a hundred times better than any single one of them, but seven against one? Bad odds, even for him. He could, probably, win this fight; it was just a question of whether or not he got out fully intact.

The first spell was thrown.

He deflected it easily, feeling a savage pleasure as he hexed the caster — the bartender.

The others responded with a messy slew of magic; one them threw a heavy glass bottle, the kind used for storing potions, at Graves. He ducked out of the way and it shattered on the wall behind him. A wisp of purple smoke escaped, though Graves did not see it. A strange scent, metallic, suffused the air. It made his eyes water; a few moments more and his nose would be streaming.

He ignored the discomfort, more occupied by firing spells. Another one of his opponents went down, more by luck than skill.

He was losing and, sooner or later, was going to sustain some actual damage. He couldn’t focus for long enough to Apparate; besides, he couldn’t leave Theseus behind. Half a dozen options spun through his mind, each less viable than the last.

Percival Graves was not accustomed to being saved, but as his spells grew more and more desperate, he couldn’t help wishing that there was someone else to help him.

He glanced over at the bar. Theseus’ situation, too, was growing ever more dire. They were only five or six metres apart, but the distance seemed utterly impassable.

It was at this point that a mirror, above the bar, was shattered by a stray curse. Shards of glass rained down on both Theseus and the men he was fighting, the latter of whom turned to protect their faces.

That gave Theseus a second to gather his concentration; he leapt (and that must have been magically assisted) off the counter, somehow clearing the semicircle of Graves’ attackers. He landed, stumbled, collided with Graves.

They Apparated with a loud _crack_.

Theseus released his arm as soon as they had rematerialised in the empty corridor outside Picquery’s office.

“I’m sorry.” he said. “About the Side-Along Apparition. I know it’s not the most comfortable.”

Graves waved his apology away, trying to tamp down his nausea.

“You know,” Graves panted, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath. “You told me that I didn’t have to worry about you.”

“What?”

“You said–” his speech was punctuated by huge wheezes. “–that you weren’t – as mad – as your brother – but then – you go – and do – something like that.”

Theseus laughed breathlessly.

There was something euphoric about that moment. The scale of the fiasco would catch up with them momentarily, but just then Graves felt only the adrenaline surging in his body and the erratic thumping of his heart.

Then he began to cough in earnest. Over and over and over again, unstoppably.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no wizarding hospital in New York, nothing like St. Mungo’s, but MACUSA had a hospital wing for their emergencies. So that’s where Graves ended up.

The hospital wing was comprised of a single ward, lined with identical starched beds, a tiny office and a few private rooms reserved for examinations and patients in need of intensive care. In deference to his rank, they gave him a screen around his bed for privacy. There was one Healer and three nurses, all attired in a disturbingly similar fashion to MACUSA’s executioners.

Graves, of course, wasn't aware of this until well into the next day. It had been nearly midnight when he’d been taken there and it wasn't until four o’clock the next day (Saturday, not that that really mattered to Graves — he often worked weekends as well) that he regained consciousness.

When he did so, he woke to a pounding headache, cracked lips, scratchy eyes, an aching chest. Almost instantly, the dryness of his throat forced him to cough, an affair that felt like he was trying to regurgitate sandpaper. The only saving grace was that it brought the nurse running, and she coaxed a glass of water down him. Graves thought, at that moment, that he had never tasted anything so sweet. 

She insisted on running a few tests. He blinked through several bouts of dizziness, then rejected the offer of food on the grounds that his stomach turned at the very idea of eating. 

“Can you handle a visitor?” she asked, out of the blue.

“Depends on who it is.”

“The British one. Said his name was Scamander.” She raised an eyebrow. “He was the one that brought you in? Hovered like a mother hen for hours. We had to physically remove him from the ward.”

That image brought quick smile to his face. He was certain, then, that the two of them were cut from similar cloth. It was a shame that they worked for two different governments, because they could achieve a lot together, professionally. On a personal level, Graves secretly thought that Theseus could actually tempt him out of his office occasionally, if they saw each other regularly. That would be no mean feat.

“Sure.” He mentally reprimanded himself, remembering that his near-rude monosyllabic answers were the root of his intimidating reputation. A reputation that he had carefully cultivated, but one that was probably not the most appropriate in this setting.

She bustled off. Graves assumed that she sent a memo to Theseus, because the man burst through the doors ten minutes later.

“Graves!” he exclaimed. “I've been so worried about you — we all have.”

Of the previous night, he remembered vomiting, multiple times, and not being able to breath. There was also a vague recollection of Theseus’ voice, composed, but with an edge of panic, relaying details to the Healer: “Unknown substance – gaseous – possibly similar to the Muggle chlorine gas? – no, no, I’m fine, I only got a bit of it, he got much more – he’s been overworking himself anyway–”

He snapped back to the present, mustering as much dignity as one can when one is in pyjamas in a hospital bed.

“Goldstein asked me to give you this–” Theseus produced a box of pastries, which Graves guessed had been baked by Queenie, Tina’s more glamorous sister. “–and Blakely looked like he was about to cry. He feels like this was all his fault, so he's promised that he'll find a way to make it up to you.”

“Thank you, I appreciate the effort.” he said. “And, really, you should call me Percival. I've been calling you ‘Theseus’ for a long time now.”

“Yes, but everyone — well, a lot people — call me Theseus. Everyone calls you ‘Graves’ or ‘Director’.”

“No,” he countered. “Friends call me Percival.”

That wasn’t the last time Theseus visited — he turned up at least twice a day, usually bearing gems of office gossip. His behaviour was a surprise to Graves. He seemed content just to sit next to Graves’ bed, discussing any subject that came to mind, until the nurses chased him away. They talked about inconsequential things: Hogwarts, Ilvermorny, London, New York; Graves finally felt that they can consider themselves friends.

He didn't know how to feel about it — the fact that Theseus was willing to while away so much time with him is astounding. A lesser man might have stuttered through a ‘thank you’ or a ‘please, don't feel that you have to do this’, but Graves unashamedly indulged in the pleasure of a regular companion and condemned his doubts to the back of his mind.

He even resurrected a hobby of his youth: origami. He folded the little creatures by hand, then enchanted them to hop (or swim or gallop or slither) over his bed. He was again thankful for the privacy afforded to him by the screens; he couldn't imagine what people would say if they saw the fearsome Percival Graves succumb to such whimsy. At any rate, Theseus was delighted by them (“my brother used to do something similar, when we were younger, except his never had such finesse”), and it was Theseus’ visits that kept him sane.

Goldstein visited once. It reminded them both, horribly, of a previous encounter. Obviously discomforted, she asked after his well being and gifted him a slice of cake (truly, Graves thought, her sister was a domestic goddess), then left, twisting her hands together self consciously.

Picquery came to visit a week after he was admitted to hospital. It was early in the morning — the only time, Graves surmised, that she could spare for anything that wasn't strictly essential. She was dressed simply, her clothes of a masculine cut and her hair secured under a discreet scarf. As usual, she didn't beat about the bush: a few token questions about how he was feeling, then straight onto what he wanted to know.

“We’ve made a breakthrough. A real one. Goldstein and Blakely actually trust this guy. Say he’s given them good information before.”

They had a kind of unspoken understanding that allows them to speak freely and plainly, despite their respective positions. He supposed that he should have been offended that it had taken that long for her to visit, but what was the point in that? That wasn’t the kind of relationship that they had.

“Black market?”

“No. Runs a couple of speakeasies in Manhattan.”

“So nothing illegal, from MACUSA’s point of view.” Graves, alongside the rest of the wizarding community, was immensely grateful that neither Picquery nor MACUSA had never supported Prohibition.

“No. Anyway, he's given us the location of a warehouse that he claims acts as their headquarters.”

“When are you going in?”

“This afternoon. Trying to get this over and done with.” Picquery searched Graves’ eyes. “I wish you could be there with us.”

Graves waved her apprehension away. “You don’t need me.”

“Maybe not, but I’d be a lot more comfortable if you were there. The others are good Aurors, they’re reliable and I trust them. But if I could choose, I’d pick you to be with in a fight with any time.”

“Thanks.” Her faith in him meant more than he let her know. “But I’ve no doubt that you’re as strong as I am.”

She released short laugh. “Maybe, but I’m not the one who’s still remembered for illicit duelling at Ilvermorny.”

“You routinely beat me in Duelling Club.” 

It was true. That was how they’d met. Graves could clearly recall the simultaneous exhilaration and frustration that had always come with facing her, knowing he had, at most, a thirty percent chance of victory. Nowadays, he spent more time in the field and she spent most of her time in offices, but he doubted that her skill had waned.

“God! I remember Duelling Club. Seems so insignificant compared to what we deal with every day.”

“It taught us well.”

“Well…” she says, shaking her head faintly, as if trying to disperse the malaise that had fallen over her. “Let’s hope.”


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a week. He had had enough.

The Healer in the hospital wing (which made it sound like he was back at Ilvermorny) had just let him leave — Graves used that term loosely, though, since he'd basically just discharged himself. He had been sternly instructed not to overwork himself for at least another week, although the Healer seemed to have an air of resignation about him as he said it. The nurses, on the other hand, seemed relieved. Clearly, glowering at their other patients had not won any points in his favour.

Graves stopped at home to wash and change, but a week off his feet had provided him with an unusual energy, so he went straight back to MACUSA.

He resented that he hadn’t been able to go with the others, until he collapsed into his office chair with exhaustion. The ordeal had left his body weak.

Blackwell, seeming to appear out of nowhere, made him a steaming cup of a honey-lemon-tea combination. Graves was dubious at first, but found that the concoction was strangely soothing. As he drank it, the younger man updated him on the case.

“They left here at around midday, though they weren’t planning to actually launch the raid until three-thirty. President Picquery, against everyone’s advice, is leading it. I’m not sure of their exact plan, but they should be back within the next hour or so. I’ve taken care of most of the paperwork and I’ll submit the full report as soon as they’re back.”

“Good. Thank you, Blackwell.”

He meant it as a gentle dismissal, and Blackwell read it as such, exiting the room quietly.

Leaning back in his chair, Graves sighed, a mixture of pain and thoughtfulness. He noticed, suddenly, as the afternoon light made the room glow, that his office was a great deal tidier than he’d left it. He suspected he had a lot to thank Blackwell for.

It wasn’t not long before they returned. The other Aurors looked up from their work, eager to know about the raid. Goldstein and Blakely, and the three other Aurors that had accompanied them, obliged immediately. Through the glass of his office windows, he saw Theseus exchange a hushed word with Picquery. She nodded in return. They disentangled themselves from the others and drifted into Graves’ office.

Graves pounced on them swiftly. “How was it?”

It was Theseus who replied. “Honestly? Anticlimactic.”

“Really?” The disbelief was palpable. “I have a hard time imagining that an operation of that size went down without a fight.”

“No, really. We walked in, wands blazing, and they just scattered. Half of them Apparated on the spot, the other half surrendered after we Stunned a few. I didn't get to cast a single spell.”

Graves laughed at the slight tone of disappointment in Theseus’ last sentence. It seemed so unlike him and his level-headed exterior.

Picquery, unusually quiet up until then, broke into the conversation. “Well, to celebrate, we should go for a drink. All of us.”

***

And so, on a Monday night, Graves found himself in The Leaping Leprechaun, a favourite haunt of MACUSA employees. He had been parked at a small table and instructed not to exert himself. Picquery sat with him. They existed in amicable silence until Theseus returned, levitating three glasses and a bottle. He poured them a drink each.

The others congregated around their table.

At the expectant looks of the gathering, Picquery started a toast.

“Well, I’d just like to commend all of you for your work these past few days: you all did well during both of the raids.” 

The response is a mixture of smiles and grimaces.

“Blakely, you brought this to us in the first place. Well done.”

Blakely coloured slightly.

“Blackwell, we’d wouldn’t have gotten through this without your coffee.”

Laughs of agreement.

“Scamander, I would hire you in an instant, but Fawley’d be a fool to let you go.”

“I can think of no higher praise.”

Picquery raised her glass and repeated the Auror’s customary toast: “To magic, MACUSA, and sheer dumb luck.”

They all echoed her, taking long sips from their drinks. Then they dispersed to various corners of the bar, leaving Graves, Picquery, and Scamander at their table.

***

A little ways away, Goldstein, Marcus Blakely, and Blackwell took over their own table. They were very different people, but they’d gotten to know each other well during the case.

“I think,” Blakely remarked lightly. “That we should get Picquery to pick up the bar bill. We’ve worked enough hours for this to warrant it.”

The other two laughed.

“If you’re brave enough to ask…” Goldstein suggested.

“God, no! I'm not brave enough to interrupt them.” Blakely questioned. “That's Picquery we’re talking about. President Seraphina Picquery, Director Percival Graves, and Theseus Scamander. Trust me, I'm not about to get in their way.”

“Any sane person would be terrified.” Blackwell agreed. “But, Goldstein, I hear that that might be your future brother-in-law.”

Goldstein flushed, suddenly unable to form a proper sentence. The two men chuckled good-naturedly.

***

Out of earshot of the Goldstein-Blakely-Blackwell conversation, the other trio shared a feeling of relief.

“Whilst this has been a royal headache, I’m almost disappointed that it’s over.” Picquery quipped.

“Can’t argue with that.” Theseus said. “I’ve enjoyed New York much more than I thought I would.”

“Glad to hear it. But what are we calling this palaver?”

“Officially, Blackwell’s invented some fancy, boring name for it.” Graves replied. “But I’m in favour of something more interesting.”

“‘The Downfall of the Trans-Atlantic Rats’.” Theseus suggested, then instantly contradicted himself. “No, that’s pathetic. Maybe ‘Operation Rat Poison’? No, that’s equally ridiculous.”

‘The Rats’ was what the smugglers called themselves, they had discovered during the second raid. Graves was endlessly disappointed by the lack of creativity that criminals exhibited.

“Operation Thorndike?” Graves randomly put forward.

“You don’t strike me as a Thorndike fan.” Theseus said, surprised.

“I’m not.”

“Thorndike?” Picquery questioned.

“Russell Thorndike. A Muggle author. Wrote the Doctor Syn books, which are all about a smuggler.” Theseus explained.

Picquery nodded approvingly.

“To Operation Thorndike.” They clinked their glasses together once more.

They paused for a moment to drink.

“When are you leaving?” Picquery asked Theseus.

“Tomorrow morning. Blackwell offered to organise a Portkey.”

He sounded reluctant. Somehow, Graves fancied that they’d be seeing Theseus again before long.


End file.
